


I know I have been dreaming

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bar fights, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Emotional Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hugs, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Men Crying, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Senses, Witcher racism, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), brief moment of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: “It seemed impossible. No matter how many townsfolk he aided, no matter the number of monsters he killed, no matter how many vicious, irritated, tired words he bit back, no matter how much coin he paid extra just to be served the same as any other man, nothing helped. Underneath it all, every time, was the stench of fear, the smell of anger, or the sound of a fast-beating heart. So Geralt decided that itwasimpossible, and the people of the Continent, from the very north to the southernmost reaches, would always hate his kind.Then he met Jaskier.”Or Geralt is strong, except in all the ways that he isn’t, and so Jaskier protects him.
Relationships: (Pre) Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 536
Collections: Five times a character did something cute and one that I saved it as a bookmark





	I know I have been dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> “I dreamed you were a poem,  
> I say, a poem I wanted to show someone . . .  
> and I laugh and fall dreaming again  
> of the desire to show you to everyone I love,  
> to move openly together”  
> — “II,” _Twenty-One Love Poems_ , Adrienne Rich

Geralt was used to being hated.

At this point, being hated for him was like getting dressed on a cold, damp morning. It was unpleasant, but something he did anyway because he had to. Of course, being hated hurt a lot more than a cold and damp morning did, and it was far more inconvenient, even dangerous. As well as tiring, oh so very tiring.

If Geralt were a stone block, then hatred was the artist’s chisel which chipped away at him. Witchers were not supposed to let their emotions sway them— but he had, and did, far too often for what was appropriate.

So it hurt when he was turned away from the only inn within miles, or mothers shielded their children as he passed by. It stung when men spat at his feet, muttering insults beneath their breath. It made the witcher feel as if he’d been hollowed out by a rusty spoon— those few times when he was visibly injured, and not a single soul stepped up to help him. _It’s nothing_ , he told himself in those moments. He tried not to feel it— the sting of resentment, the raw anger that only came from decades of pent-up frustration and a soul-deep sense of confusion.

What more could he— could _anyone_ — possibly do to not be so desperately feared and hated?

It seemed impossible. No matter how many townsfolk he aided, no matter the number of monsters he killed, no matter how many vicious, irritated, tired words he bit back, no matter how much coin he paid extra just to be served the same as any other man, nothing helped. Underneath it all, every time, was the stench of fear, the smell of anger, or the sound of a fast-beating heart. So Geralt decided that it _was_ impossible, and the people of the Continent, from the very north to the southernmost reaches, would always hate his kind.

Then he met Jaskier.

He was like a Moon Dust bomb, or at least, that was what Geralt likened the bard’s impact on his life to. The man was loud, glittery, and distracting. He clung close, caused the witcher _much_ confusion, and could be cutting. While he wouldn’t exactly say that the bard was deadly, there had been a few bar fights, or other instances where the other man had had to use a dagger which made him reconsider. Anyway, this was all to say that Jaskier had disrupted everything when he exploded into Geralt’s life.

Though the change was not immediate, it still felt enormously quick to the witcher, who was used to watching the tides of history ebb and flow through the _decades_. So a handful of years was nothing, absolutely nothing, to him. When Jaskier had first said, “I can change everyone’s perception of you,” Geralt hadn’t believed him. _He’s_ _just another person who wants something from you_ , he’d reminded himself. _Just another wanderer, looking for excitement_. And later, after Jaskier did not leave: _the bard will hate you, eventually, or a monster will scare him off, or someone will talk sense into him_.

He told himself that it would not last; this knowledge only made it more precious.

But as the months, and later years, passed by, it did last. Jaskier’s first song, “Toss A Coin,” was written, and when Geralt heard its premiere in a tavern, he nearly spilled tears into his mug of ale. He did end up having to look away from Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes, which met his own while the bard sang; it was too much, and the witcher felt something crack deep inside. As a few voices began to hum along, and several pairs of boots stomped the ground in time, that crack widened, and he felt rattled.

Later, Geralt would recognize it as the first moment of change.

And things really, actually, did get better after that. It was slow— almost imperceptible at first— but his prospects did improve. The witcher was not chased out of inns, nor underpaid, or scowled or spat at as often. People at least looked at him, and occasionally offered help if he were injured (not that Jaskier let him go about without being cared for, after he out-stubborned Geralt about it). It was nearly a miracle.

Except some people still did not like witchers.

That seemed to be the case here. They were in what Jaskier had colorfully deemed “A cousins-as-brothers” settlement in the far north, just a few miles from the Redanian border. Geralt was very tired and sore, having dealt with two archgriffins only a few hours ago. He’d also been irritated because of an unpleasant exchange with the innkeeper— who had so graciously lent Jaskier a room for cheap after hearing that he was a bard— yet immediately soured upon seeing the witcher’s weary face, and demanded double the coin if he were going “to house the likes of _your_ lot.”

Jaskier had grumbled, and nearly marched himself back out the door, but Geralt clamped a hand down on the bard’s shoulder, and held him still as he fished out the necessary coin. They had been traveling in the wilderness for weeks, meeting increasing hostility— both towards his own profession, and the bard’s— as they ventured further and further north. They needed this too much for Geralt to allow Jaskier’s sense of righteousness to force them away.

The man had looked no more satisfied, though he’d offered the witcher, and a spitting-mad Jaskier, a cool grin after receiving the bribe. “Jus’ don’t cause any trouble.”

“Understood,” Geralt had replied stiffly.

“Slimy two-faced bastard,” Jaskier had muttered under his breath.

Now, though he still felt a bit off-balance from the nasty interaction, Geralt was glad that he had paid up. His contentment was partially caused by the several mugs of ale he’d already consumed. The witcher wasn’t drunk, never really got drunk, but his problems felt more distant as he became increasingly tipsy. The plate of spit-roasted pork and carrot-potato stew before him helped too. On top of the meal and drink, Jaskier had washed and combed Geralt’s hair earlier, which always left him feeling like hot, melted wax.

And then the bard, who had been warming up the crowd for the past few hours, began belting “Toss A Coin.”

Geralt smiled secretively into his mug for the first few lines of the song; no use in inflating Dandelion’s ego further by admitting that he didn’t really hate the bard’s singing. In fact, he actually enjoyed it— Jaskier had a good voice. Things had continued decently enough until one large, bald man lurched to his feet, spit, and sent his mug hurtling to the ground, where it broke with a loud crack.

“Shut up, you cock-sucking peacock. I won’t be tossin’ none of ma coin to no bloody witcher!” the man said. A few of his companions hooted heartily, apparently agreeing with the insult.

Jaskier had dealt with his share of contrary audiences, and so after a brief pause, he continued singing. Geralt had gone tense, but stayed down. He remembered the innkeeper’s warning, and knew that if a fight broke out— no matter how justified— he would be blamed. And the witcher did not want to get them tossed out, not when it was already dark, and they so far north. Making camp in such a situation would be unpleasant.

But the witcher _also_ didn’t interfere because then Jaskier himself would be irritated.

The bard, who could be very immature, was surprisingly level-headed and professional about hecklers. “Let them,” he always said. “Everyone is free to hold an opinion— as incorrect as it may be— and if they’re not actually causing too much trouble, I don’t mind. You’ve got to have thick skin in the barding business.” Geralt didn’t much understand ‘the barding business,’ but he _did_ relate to the concept of thick skin being necessary. So he tried to let Jaskier handle his own problems. Mostly.

As Jaskier finished the closing notes of “Toss A Coin,” the annoyed man sat down, huffing slightly. Geralt relaxed somewhat. _Another one who’s all talk and no action_. _Wonder what dirty joke Jask would make about that?_ He snorted to himself.

Then, as Jaskier began singing again— his latest composition, about Geralt’s vanquishing of a grave hag— trouble began. A different man, sitting near the first, rose to his feet, swaying slightly. “Oi, Bard! Shut yer whoreson mouth about that dirty witcher, no one wants to hear it! Fucking unnatural, they is.” Jaskier cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to say something, but the man slammed his mug down, sloshing its contents across the table. “Sing somethin’ else or get out.”

The bard’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

 _Fuck. They’ve really done it now_ , Geralt thought, slightly panicked. An annoyed Jaskier was a stupid, unthinking Jaskier. He rose from his seat, ready to interfere as needed. But before the witcher could do much of anything, Jaskier sealed his fate.

“Gentlemen,” the bard crooned dangerously while shouldering his lute and walking to the edge of the small corner stage, “I’ll stop singing of the White Wolf’s heroics when you lot have grown balls large enough to butcher even a single chicken. I suspect that your wives would appreciate the aesthetic improvement too.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Then it exploded.

The two men who had insulted Jaskier’s singing roared, and bolted for the stage. A few other patrons stood, to help or to get a better view of the soon-to-be bar fight, Geralt didn’t know. The bald man had reached the edge of the stage by the time he was able to vault over the table and come up behind him. The witcher glared murderously when he saw the gleam of a dagger in Jaskier’s attacker’s hand.

He unsheathed his own blade, and held it firmly at the man’s neck. “Touch a single fucking hair on his head and you _die_ ,” Geralt snarled. The room fell silent again. He was both completely aware of every other persons’ position, and hyper-focused on the unmoving body before him. No one and nothing hurt his bard.

The slight sound of footsteps made the witcher’s eyes snap upwards. It was Jaskier. He carefully approached the edge of the stage, steering out of reach of his would-be opponent, and hopped lithely off it. The bard brought a calming hand up, and laid it on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing a bit.

Then Jaskier let go, and walked around so that the other man, still held at sword-point, could see him. “Perhaps this has gotten out of hand. I can admit when I have spoken hastily, and this is one of those moments. But I get irritated rather easily when someone interrupts a performance. If you would allow me to finish my last few songs, I will take back that… uncouth statement, and we shall never bother one another again,” he said.

The man’s shoulders hunched, and he stunk of anger and resentment. “Call off your fucking witcher first, Bard. Then we can talk.”

Jaskier’s slightly-irritated gaze flickered to his and held it. “Geralt, if you would…” He growled, and reluctantly lowered his sword. The bard nodded. “Thank you, my friend— watch out!”

He quickly spun around, only to be met with a face-full of ceramic mug. It cracked upon impact, covering much of Geralt’s face and front in lukewarm ale. The container’s breaking also cut the witcher’s face in several places, and left him momentarily dazed. Only another of Jaskier’s shouts roused him in time to duck out of the way of a new dagger-wielding attacker. He spotted another man holding a barstool in his peripheral vision, and turned, hacking at it with his steel sword. The man wisely dropped it, and staggered away.

“No whoreson like you belongs here, witcher! Don’t you know that?” the bald man sneered. He bent over, nimbly retrieving the fallen dagger.

Geralt raised his sword, seething. “I _don’t_ , actually. Though one could say the same about backwater fucks like you.” The man lunged forward, snarling. _Right where I want him_. The witcher swiftly moved forward, and held the tip of his blade against the man’s neck until a thin bead of blood appeared. The ruffian’s eyes widened, and he gasped. Geralt’s heart beat steadily in his chest, and he released a prolonged exhale for more inward stability.

Behind him, the smell of Dandelion’s panic rose above the tavern’s overwhelming atmosphere. _Fuck_. He grimaced once, and lowered the steel weapon. “Get out of here before I change my mind about sparing you. You and your friends both.” The man nodded, whites of his eyes very visible. Geralt’s grip on his sword did not loosen until all three men were gone.

Jaskier’s abrupt touch startled him. “Go upstairs quickly, witcher. I’ll get this sorted out.” Though the bard’s voice was steady, his hands trembled, and he stunk of fear.

Geralt’s stomach felt sour, and his heart cold.

 _You fucking idiot_ , he screamed at himself. _You knew you’d lose him eventually. But you forgot. You forgot that no one_ ** _likes_** _poor freaks like yourself_. While Jaskier had long appeared to be immune to the general fear and hatred of witchers, it seemed that even he had a breaking point. And this was it.

The witcher sheathed his weapon, and quietly complied with the bard’s request.

Once inside their room, Geralt allowed himself to slowly inhale a shuddery, burning breath before he splashed his face with water, and roughly cleaned bits of ceramic out of his cuts with a rag and soap. His eyes burned, and in the small mirror, his yellow gaze was scorching. After wiping off the blood, he swiftly cleared off the worst of the sticky, semi-dried ale from his armor, and began packing.

The witcher’s heart felt heavier than the entire range of the Blue Mountains. He would have to leave soon, just as he’d feared earlier. Only this time, Jaskier would surely not be going with him. Or ever again. 

Geralt managed to neatly pack all of his things within the next dozen or so minutes; this was one of the first skills he’d learned after leaving Kaer Morhen. After he’d done this, the witcher was intent on leaving. But he was not strong enough. His packed bags were piled at the foot of the bed, waiting for him to pick them up and walk out the door into the night.

 _Fuck_ , Geralt thought, sinking heavily onto the bed.

His eyes felt hot and his chest tight. He buried his face in the palms of his hands, scowling as he accidentally pressed on the still-unbandaged cuts. The witcher tried to make himself leave, willed his booted feet to walk across the creaky floorboards, his hands to grasp the door, but he couldn’t. Though he knew it was wiser, would perhaps save Jaskier an eviction from the shitty inn, he couldn’t. Even if the bard looked at him fearfully, or with distaste, Geralt was incapable of leaving without seeing him one last time. _I can’t leave without saying goodbye. I can’t_.

The witcher settled into a light meditative state as he awaited Dandelion’s return. While he normally would not do this, it was unlikely that he’d be getting any rest once he was back on the road, alone. _It’s only a matter of time now._ So Geralt allowed his eyes to close, and did his best to relax as he settled into a more comfortable position.

Only the sound of light footsteps approaching the door alerted him to Jaskier’s impending return. He had just enough time to brace himself, and adjust his position so that he was ready to grab his bags and depart, when Jaskier stormed in.

“Oh, I am _so angry_ , Geralt! So, so angry—” the bard began. The witcher flinched, feeling as if he’d just been stabbed, or perhaps been spit on by one of those archgriffins after all. He stood jerkily. Jaskier, rapidly working himself into a frenzy, did not notice. He simply kept pacing, stomping sporadically for emphasis. “The amount of coin I had to shell out just now to keep us roofed until morning… preposterous! It was robbery, witcher.”

Geralt frowned, feeling a sour, burning sensation somewhere in his gut. He swallowed, and willed himself to speak. _This is the last time that you’ll see the bard_ , he reminded himself. But just as he could not force himself to depart earlier, the witcher currently found himself lost for words. Jaskier apparently noticed his more-prolonged-than-usual silence, for he looked up from the floor, which he’d been scowling at, and blinked.

Jaskier took in his packed bags, Geralt’s armored form, and his face. “What are you doing?”

“I- I… I’m leaving.”

A quizzical frown. “What makes you think that we’re _leaving_ , my friend? You and I paid good coin to stay here; _more_ than good coin, really. And your poor, pretty face, it really must be tended to! I cannot, simply _cannot_ , allow it to scar. Well, more than it already has, anyway.”

It was the witcher’s turn to frown. While he was thrown by the other man calling _any_ part of him ‘pretty,’ Geralt was more thrown that the bard was not kicking him out. He stared at his friend, who returned the look, if only with more confusion. “But you… Jaskier, I—”

“Use your words, darling.”

He took a steadying breath, and looked down at his booted feet. “I thought that you wouldn’t be coming with me.”

The room filled with a bleak silence, and Jaskier smelled sad. Then the bard sighed, and muttered a nearly-inaudible, “Oh, _Geralt_ ” under his breath. The witcher frowned, and blinked away the stinging blurriness in his eyes. He braced himself to hear that Jaskier _would not_ be fleeing into the night with him.

“Geralt.” He refused to look up. “Geralt, look at me.” The witcher pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly. It was not very mature, but then, _he_ wasn’t feeling very mature at the moment; rather like a small, wounded child, if anything. “Please, witcher.”

A shuddery sigh escaped his lips as Geralt finally obeyed. Jaskier’s blue eyes were wide, earnest, and far too devastatingly soft. The bard frowned momentarily, and then his expression went neutral. Jaskier slowly approached Geralt, and laid a hand on his large, armored shoulder. After a long moment, the witcher’s shoulders sagged, and Jaskier abruptly looked very tired.

“You thought I was going to leave, didn’t you?”

He opened his mouth, but Jaskier, apparently, was on a roll. And once he was, it was very hard to stop him. “Over this? These- these nobodies! My dear, noble, foolish witcher, of course I would never abandon you! Those men, nay, _beasts_ , treated you like dirt, and so their actions were returned—”

“But I- you smelled… afraid, Jaskier. You were fearful during the fight, and in danger _because of me_. How…?” he interrupted brokenly.

The bard smiled reassuringly, if still a bit sadly, and squeezed Geralt’s shoulder again. “That? I was scared _for you_ , my friend. Not that I doubted your skills, of course, but… things can always go wrong. No, you’ve been no trouble at all, witcher. And you know what they say about the Golden Rule.”

He blinked, reeling from both this admission and a cautious sense of relief. “Is that some sort of economic agreement? Fair pay for your work?”

Jaskier stared. He opened his mouth, but hesitated. “Is this one of your rare, oft ill-timed jokes, Geralt, or are you serious?”

The witcher frowned. “I’m serious.”

Jaskier sighed, looking even more disheartened. “The Golden Rule is that you treat other people how you would like to be treated in return. Those pricks got what they deserved.”

He frowned again, still not entirely sure that he grasped the concept. _Wouldn’t have happened if Jaskier hadn’t had to needlessly defend himself on my behalf_. “Okay…”

The bard apparently sensed his lingering apprehension, for he sighed again, and opened his arms. “Come here, Geralt.” The witcher blinked, hesitant to move forward, in case this somehow caused Jaskier to change his mind. An insistent “Ahem” and a pointed look got him to lumber forward into the bard’s reach.

With surprising strength, Jaskier held him. The bard’s head rested lightly against Geralt’s shoulder pauldron— which was jarring. He always forgot how tall Jaskier was, as his slender frame and lack of fighting capability always made him seem much smaller, and more delicate. Geralt blinked, and carefully freed his arms from Jaskier’s grip so he could bring them up around the bard’s back. He felt nearly overwhelmed at the sudden cessation of worry.

 _All I could ever need is this_. At that saccharine thought, he broke.

Jaskier was still here. The bard had defended him, and risked bodily harm to do so. He’d protected Geralt in a way that no one ever really had before, and he was _not_ leaving. The witcher closed his eyes to try and stem the tide of tears which he felt stinging his eyes, making the room blurry. But it didn’t help, as he only felt _more_ overwhelmed by the sudden absence of sensory distraction. The rocky core of him shook, and split open. Geralt buried his face in his friend’s shoulder, and cried.

The cuts on his face stung where salty tears flowed into them.

“Oh, my dear witcher, I am far too enamored of you to go anywhere,” the bard murmured.

Geralt sucked in a hiccupy breath, and raised his head, eyes wide and glittery. “ _Enamored_ of me?” he repeated, confused. Jaskier’s eyes grew large, and his lips parted in a small, surprised, ‘oh.’ He released his grip on the witcher, and stepped back. Geralt felt the loss of contact keenly.

Then Jaskier laughed breathily. “Ah, forgive me the confusion, Geralt. I meant to say ‘fond of,’ not ‘enamored.’ Oh, Melitele— what a slip-up.”

The witcher’s eyes narrowed. His heart felt as if it had grown wings. “You never misspeak.” _Impossible. It’s impossible…_ But he felt hopeful anyway. Even Geralt— who was very inexperienced in the realm of expressing his emotions— knew that there was a vast difference between fondness and enamoration. Yet he still could not quite believe that Jaskier had spoken true.

The bard swallowed convulsively. “Er, well that’s _very_ flattering of you to say, my friend, but—”

“I… like men too.”

Jaskier blinked. The overwhelming scent of panic which had filled the room faded. “You do?”

Geralt nodded, feeling a bit lost for words. “Men, women, I like them both— and you,” he clarified stiffly.

“Oh!” Jaskier exhaled, and stared at the witcher. “You… you like _me_?”

He nodded. “How could I not?”

Jaskier laughed giddily. “‘How could you not?’” he repeated.

Geralt growled, itching to move forward and hold Jaskier once more. Instead, he settled for trying to make the other man understand. “I have… _liked you_ for a very long time now, Jaskier. You’ve always been so kind, so patient, so willing to- to do whatever is necessary just to make me feel comfortable. I was a fool for ever believing that anything else could happen; no one has ever treated me as well as you do.”

The room fell silent again. He felt alarmed when the bard sniffed, and his nose suddenly filled with the scent of saltwater. Geralt’s brain nearly shut down at the thought: _Jaskier is crying_. Before he had really given the action any consideration, the witcher moved across the gap between him and the bard, and placed a hand on Dandelion’s shoulder. He felt deeply shaken by the other man’s outburst.

Jaskier sniffed, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and looked up at Geralt. Then he burst into laughter.

The witcher made a small, confused sound. Jaskier chuckled once more, then exhaled loudly. “Your expression is quite comical, Geralt… and you are far too sweet to me. I’m not sure how I’ll ever match it. Ah well. I’ll bandage you up, and then we can make the most out of the rest of this horrendous night— I believe that we’ll have a rather early start tomorrow if we don’t want to be chased out with torches and pitchforks.” Jaskier grimaced.

“Hmm?” Geralt made another confused noise.

The bard’s eyes widened, and his cheeks colored slightly. “Oh! I- I meant sleeping, Geralt. You know, since we have access to an actual bed for once?”

Geralt nodded, feeling a rush of relief. As much as he enjoyed sex, he did not feel up to it tonight. “I would like that.”

Jaskier smiled, and any tension lingering inside him melted. “Right then. Let’s get you out of all that heavy armor, shall we?” His nimble fingers began undoing the various buckles and clasps which covered the witcher’s body. Geralt helped as best he could.

As they worked, he was struck by a thought. “Your things?”

The bard huffed dismissively. “Are easily folded and placed in my bag; I believe I own even fewer items than you do, my dear witcher. I’ll gather them in the morning.” He hesitated for a moment, knowing exactly how _fond_ Jaskier was of early mornings— that was to say, not at all— but Jaskier grasped his newly-bared forearm, and squeezed gently. “Let’s get you patched up, then in bed.”

The idea that he would be _allowed_ to sleep with the bard was too tempting for him to resist. Geralt nodded, and they walked to the small bed together. The witcher swallowed, feeling nearly dizzy at how quickly his heart beat. _This is nothing unusual_ , he tried to tell himself, _you’ve shared beds and bed rolls with Jaskier before_. Yet, despite what he told himself, the witcher knew— felt— that this was special.

Sharing this particular bed, on this particular night, meant something different than it had before.

Jaskier gently wiped Geralt’s face clean of tears, and any lingering dirt, then began to inspect the witcher’s wounds for debris, and carefully plucked any leftover bits of ceramic out. The witcher hummed contentedly, and kept his eyes closed, relishing in the caring touch. Fortunately, none of the cuts were deep, and so he didn’t have to endure the prickling annoyance of stitches. Jaskier simply applied healing salve, and made him drink a few sips of Swallow— though he did not truly need it— and bandaged the worst of his wounds.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” the bard murmured. He gently patted Geralt’s hand, and withdrew. The skin he’d touched felt radiant.

They both stripped down to their underwear, then stopped. The witcher glanced at the bard, who looked back. The hesitation evident in Dandelion’s eyes made him feel better. Then Jaskier laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, we’re a pair of fools, aren’t we?”

Geralt’s returning smile was fond. “I suppose we are.” He began folding up his clothes, and placed them by the rest of his belongings. Jaskier moved about the room, snuffing out candles. He left his clothing in an untidy pile on the floor by the bed.

Once the room was dark, save for the light of one candle, the bard returned to the bed. He pulled back the covers on his side of the mattress, then Geralt’s, and climbed in. Jaskier patted the witcher’s side of the bed. “In you go,” he said matter-of-factly.

 _If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is_ , Geralt thought. He nodded, sank slowly onto the mattress, and pulled the covers over himself as he did so. Then he reached for the remaining candle, and blew it out. Every sensation in that darkness felt doubly-impactful. He heard the sheets rustle, felt the mattress dip as Jaskier moved closer.

The witcher had to force himself not to jump as a soft— yet calloused— hand gently touched his cheek. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.” As Geralt lay down, he reached for the bard, who let the witcher hold him in his large, strong arms. _Nothing— absolutely nothing— could ever be better than this_ , he thought. Geralt closed his eyes, and drifted off to the soft, repetitive sound of Jaskier’s breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Title also taken from poem “II” of _Twenty-One Love Poems_. 
> 
> Read the other twenty poems— which I _highly_ recommend doing— [here](https://genius.com/Adrienne-rich-twenty-one-love-poems-annotated).


End file.
